


(I Want You To) Trouble Me

by paradisecity



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-21
Updated: 2008-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradisecity/pseuds/paradisecity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one thing John hates most about jumping forward may be the one thing that saves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I Want You To) Trouble Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the SCC Flash Fiction and Art Challenge, in response to a prompt focusing on Sarah and/or John adjusting to the gains/losses of their new time, and is set sometime before "What He Beheld." Many thanks to my betas for their incredibly helpful feedback.

The one thing John hates most about jumping forward is all the sleepless nights. He's never been an easy sleeper -- growing up in the jungles of Central America, insomnia had been a survival skill -- but he gets spoiled in Nebraska. His burgeoning teenage ability to sleep coincides with the safest he's felt in years and he can stay in bed all day, all night, and all day again if Sarah lets him.

She doesn't, but sometimes she and Charley take the bike out to Scotts Bluff and if John times it right, he can scramble out of bed a few minutes before they get home. No one has to know he's spent the entire day tangled up in his sheets, the sun caressing his bare skin as he sleeps and sleeps, waking up only to remember how good it feels and getting back there again.

Then one morning he wakes up to find Sarah watching him sleep, something she does only when things get bad. From the look on her face, he knows they're about to get worse. "We need to go," she says. "Half an hour, one bag plus the guns."

He never sleeps the same again.

\--------

He expects that jumping eight years into the future will be strange. And it is, but for all the wrong reasons. It isn't the unfamiliar that makes it difficult to adapt, but the way things that should be familiar aren't anymore. Colors look just a little bit strange and things move at a speed that's just slightly off. John finds himself unable to remember things he never thought he'd forget, like the name of the first girl he kissed or the Morse code for SOS. Being unable to trust his own perception and memory is surreal in a way that makes him edgy and unnerved. He starts calling it time lag and Sarah doesn't disagree.

After the first few weeks, he thinks it's getting better. When he starts having trouble sleeping, he realizes it's just changed. He's too busy to notice all the strange details during the day, but they overwhelm him in the quiet stillness of the night. They ring in his head with a discordant hum and he lies awake in the dark for hours, trying to quiet the noise long enough to fall asleep.

When he does, he can't often stay that way. He's startled by things that should be familiar even in this new time -- the sound of Cameron's boots on the hardwood floor as she keeps watch from the kitchen, the quicksilver flash of a car's headlights as it turns on to the street -- and awakens in a momentary panic, struggling to remember where and when he is. With his adrenaline rushing and his heart pounding, it's hard to tell what's real from what isn't. Those nights, he knows any chance he had at sleep is gone and they're becoming more and more frequent.

But it's not the first time he's had to go without and his body adjusts quickly. He's tired and it shows, but under the circumstances it's hardly unexpected.

Then Derek arrives.

\--------

Derek doesn't sleep either. It's nightmares that keep him up; John hears him jerk awake in the middle of the night, gasping for breath even as he calls Kyle's name. He never goes back to sleep afterward, just keeps checking and rechecking his gun in a cadence that soon becomes familiar to John.

When Derek's nightmares wake him late, he goes outside and sits in the grass, waiting for the sun to rise. When John can't sleep, he watches Derek through his window and shares in his silent vigil.

 --------

Early one morning, John's awakened by the sound of automatic gunfire. The flood of adrenaline and fear is familiar and he's got his Beretta out and ready to fire before he even knows where to aim. But when the panic recedes enough for him to be cognizant of his surroundings, he sees that what he took for gunfire is really just the snoring of the dog across the street. He flicks the safety back on, stashes the gun, and flops back on the bed with a groan.

With his body still thrumming, he knows he'll never get back to sleep. Rather than waste time trying, he goes to his desk and looks at the essay questions for his English homework. He's got to find a way to support his opinion about the incestuousness of Caddy and Quentin's relationship in _The Sound and the Fury_ , but he doesn't even have one. He's sure he read the book, knows he sat for hours with it in his hands, but all he remembers is a watch and something about a cake.

He gets up to look for his CliffsNotes, but catches sight of Derek sitting in the grass. He's running his hand over the blades slowly, again and again, like he has to feel each one to convince himself they're real. It's not the first time John's seen him do it; he's watched Derek for hours.

He thinks about how strange it must be for him, living in a city after so many years underground. He wonders if it's anything like Derek remembers, and if there are other things about his old life that he misses or if Kyle is all that matters.

John would never ask and he doesn't think Derek would ever tell, but before he knows what he's doing, he's slipping out the front door anyway.

"Hey," he says.

Derek goes still. "You should be sleeping."

"So should you."

"I don't sleep much anymore."

"Neither do I," John says and, uninvited, sits down beside him. The grass is cool and damp, with dew just beginning to form.

They sit in silence broken only by the rustling of the trees overhead while Derek studies John appraisingly. He must pass whatever test Derek's giving him because after a moment he says, "This is how I met you the first time, you know."

"Yeah?" John asks. "How?"

Derek goes silent and John thinks maybe he asked too much. He should've known better.

Then Derek says, "Just like this," and his voice is slow with memory. "I was up in the canteen one night, couldn't sleep. You sat down next to me."

He stops, and he's got that distant look in his eyes John's come to understand. It means that whatever he says next will be true, but the only part of the truth John will ever hear.

"You said Kyle had a lousy sense of direction, that he'd learned it from me." There's no anger his voice, just a peculiar sort of fondness. "You were just some stranger who came out of nowhere and insulted the Reese boys to my face. That was the first time I met you."

John shakes his head, but he can see himself doing that. These last few years with Sarah have censored a lot of the fight in him, but it's always there, just under the surface. Without her around, it's his first line of defense. "And what," he says, "you didn't deck me?"

Derek huffs out a small breath of laughter. "It was close. But you looked like you'd go down with one punch."

And that's the rest of the story John knows he'll never hear, even before Derek comes back to himself and locks up again. John doesn't know what to say to keep him talking; doesn't know if he even can. He tries, "I was kind of an ass, huh?"

"Yeah," Derek agrees, and there's something like a smile on his face, but he won't quite meet John's eyes. "You weren't wrong, though -- Kyle always did have a lousy sense of direction."

Above them, the trees go still as the breeze fades away. The dog across the street wakes with a metallic jangle of tags that has Derek tensing and snapping to attention. The dog stretches, shakes itself off, and trots harmlessly around to the back of the house, but Derek doesn't relax. John spots the Beretta laying within his reach, one that's exactly like his own. For the first time, he wonders if Derek's sleepless nights are less about keeping vigil over what he's lost and more about keeping watch over what he has.

The breeze picks up, ruffling the grass. John runs his hand over it the same way Derek did, then picks a blade and rubs it between his fingers. When Derek settles back again, John says, "So, you didn't know who I was?"

"What?"

"When you met me."

"You had tight security," Derek says, but the way he hesitates before he speaks is another one of his tells. "Most people fought their whole lives for you without ever knowing who you were."

John doesn't know what to make of that, can't even begin to guess at all the things Derek isn't saying. "But you did."

"Some of us did. You had a core group."

"Friends?"

Derek shakes his head. "Couldn't afford 'em. They only get in the way. You knew that then."

"You make me sound like a machine."

"You were," Derek says, and his voice is completely devoid of emotion. "You had to be. "

John clenches his jaw and starts shredding the blade of grass, ripping it into smaller and smaller pieces until they fall through his fingers. "I know what you think of me now," he says, and he hates that he can hear the tremor in his voice. "I'm not stupid. But the more I hear about who I become, the less I want to."

He doesn't know why he says it. It's not a secret, but it sounds like a confession and John knows Derek's never going to be the one who absolves him. Sometimes it's just easier to say things in the dark, to someone who will always, in some way, be a stranger. Still, he wishes he could take it back.

"Hey," Derek says gently, and this time he meets John's eyes. "No one deserved to become who they were. That's why we fought."

John looks away and the silence falls over them again. As soon as he has himself under control, he stands. "I should go."

Derek doesn't stop him, but John doesn't get far before he calls, "How's your sense of direction?"

John pauses and turns to face him. "Fine." He hesitates, then adds, "Still can't really drive a stick, though."

"That's something we can fix," Derek says, and it might be a trick of the darkness, but John thinks the half smile on Derek's face is the same one he wears when he talks about Kyle. "Get some sleep, John."

 --------

A few days later, John's still up at a quarter after one trying to write an essay on the southern gentleman's moral code. He finds himself wishing resentfully that Faulkner had drunk more and written less.

He finally gives up at half past two, no further along than when he started. At least he's tired and maybe has a chance at sleep. It's been a while.

But when he reaches up to turn off the desk lamp, he sees Derek outside. He's sitting on the swing, one hand wrapped around the chain and scratching idly at a link. Instead of going to bed, John goes out the front door and leans against the porch railing, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Derek turns at the sound of the closing door. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks.

"No," John lies. "You?"

Derek shakes his head. He watches John for a minute like maybe it isn't John he's seeing, then stands. With that same half smile, he says, "Grab the keys to the Jeep. I'll teach you how to drive a stick."

"The Jeep's not a stick."

"Yeah, I know," Derek says, and John tries not to be offended at the sarcasm. "But I also know a few good parking lots. You can hotwire, right?"

This time John _is_ offended. "Only since I was eight. I'm probably faster than you are."

"You're on," Derek says. "You're gonna owe me a beer."

"Except I'm sixteen."

"Then we'll do fake IDs next."

John tries to hide a smile of his own as a goes inside to get the keys and tell Cameron to stay put. When he's done, Derek's waiting by the Jeep. John tosses him the keys.

"It's your show, kid," Derek says, and tosses them back. They climb in and buckle up. "Go north. There's a garage on Century that's always full."

At the cross street, John turns right. "Your other north," Derek says dryly. "Do you really not know your north from your south?"

John grins. "Do you really not know when someone's screwing with you?"

Derek flips him off and, gunning the engine out of a tight U-turn, John wonders if maybe this is what it feels like to be a Reese.


End file.
